Harpoon on the Tube
by Miriamele of Shalott
Summary: Just before being visited by a young man about a deadly hound, Sherlock returns to 221B mysteriously covered in blood and carrying a harpoon. But what would the previous scene have been like, what were his thoughts and the reactions of his unsuspecting fellow Londoners? Drabbles of what was left out and what I have always wanted to see. Some humorous, others more angsty.
1. Harpoon, Pig's Blood, & Symptoms of Fear

**I was recently informed by sevenpercent that I had left out a very important detail that leads up to the first scene in "Hound of the Baskerville." Thank you for the reminder! **

**Therefore I have added a few things to part in which Sherlock is on the Tube and toward the end, if anyone would like to read it again for your Sherlockian pleasure, you are more than welcome.**

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**Harpoon on the Tube**

Chapter One

Harpoon, Pig's Blood, and Symptoms of Fear

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Staring, staring, and more staring. And little else besides.

How irritating. How unutterably dull.

The World's Only Consulting Detective released a heavy sigh.

It all began after Sherlock had performed a most interesting and entertaining experiment involving a dead pig and an antiquated harpoon. Most inconvenient though it was to dash off all the way to a local pig farm to call in a much-painful favor rather than coaxing Molly Hooper for the same—she would have been an immensely yielding target for his armament of irresistible charms, of course, but it might have been impossible for her to follow through at St. Bart's, particularly since the said specimen wouldn't have been fresh enough for his needs—it was worth it, regardless of having to suffer through the offensive conditions and moronic residents of the typical rustic life.

Like always, his deduction had been correct.

Once Sherlock had obtained the inanimate animal, he took firm hold of the seafarer's javelin and proceeded to thrust the metal barb unashamedly into its sides, its body rocking to and fro and old innards spurting surprisingly high from the post-mortem wounds to splatter across his white shirt and pale face. But he didn't mind. It was only blood, after all. He did this kind of thing often enough, and his button-downs were used to the wars of his more aggressive style of washing. Although, he had refused to wear anything else, though he felt rather naked without his black blazer, blue-striped scarf, and Belstaff coat but it was better to have left them on the peg at the flat, safe and untainted. However, more significantly at the moment was the shape and depth of the marks left behind on the sow's skin was precisely the ones inflicted on the victim of his latest case. Conclusion: The primary suspect was in fact the murderer; case broken open and sufficiently closed. He knew it. And so, he couldn't help himself but to smirk arrogantly in consequence. At least now he had evidence to satisfy those incompetent people at New Scotland Yard. Finally! His pleasure at his success was paramount, indeed.

Afterwards arose the far less amusing portion of his venture: the trip home. Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't have been so grating and ridiculous an objective, but he forgot to factor in how stupid people were, especially when they merely saw and did not observe.

At first, it didn't seem so bad. He simply strode to the nearest roadway and tried to flag down a cab. And that was when the strange looks began. The witless cabbies would start to make their way toward him in their usual manner but once they got an eyeful of the consulting detective in his bloodied state and honed elongated weapon being lazily fingered at his side, they would each blink incomprehensibly, furrow their brows, and then drop their jaws in pure shock. That was when he lost them. All five of them had dramatically spun around or taken side streets just to get away from him, barely scraping by street lamps and narrowly rolling their black cars.

Sherlock frowned. How could they make any money this way?

Getting to Baker Street would be more difficult than he had anticipated, more difficult than it should have been. Idiots.

Once the sixth cabbie had repeated the role play and rebuffed his request to be a fare, abandoning Sherlock there on the wayside, it officially sealed his fate. A fleeting idea crept into his head but decided against it. John wouldn't like being summoned all that way just to bring the taxi ride to him, not to mention that it would be pointless, though as to why that was he couldn't quite make sense of. They would both end up booted out anyway if the evidence so far was of any indication, and he didn't enjoy making his flatmate angry; the man was liable to strike out physically. No, instead he would have to resort to the only other means of public transit. Sherlock internally cringed.

Whilst wasting his time trudging to the nearest Tube station, Sherlock tapped out a quick text to John.

_Been inexplicably delayed. Taking the Tube home. SH_

By the time Sherlock reached the Tube station stairs and commenced to descend them with unparalleled grace, his phone chirped, alerting him of a new message and he immediately quested out his mobile from his pocket and gave it a cursory perusal.

_Tube? But you hate the Tube, don't you? Why aren't you taking a cab?_

_Because people are too stupid. SH_

_Sorry, what?_

_Idiots never actually think! You know what I mean. You're one of them. SH_

There was no response after that. Sherlock vaguely wondered if he had offended the good doctor in some way. Suddenly, humanity's disregard for intelligence seemed overwhelmingly rampant. Oh, how useless and disparaging emotions were; he was glad that he wasn't bothered by them. Well, it couldn't be helped just now. And yet, Sherlock profoundly hoped his colleague would forgive him once again for his rash tongue and ready insults; he had never had a true friend before and the thought of losing John made his chest ache. Irrational sentiment had little to do with it, he rationalized. The partnership had become too vital to his work was all. And he had become accustomed to the ex-soldier's company. Who else would get the shopping? One could not survive contentedly without milk for one's tea.

Since Sherlock discerned no reason as to hold an oyster card considering his aversion to the London transport system in general, he was forced to stalk purposefully to the ticket counter and approach the coffee-slurping attendant who ignored the detective for a moment or two but once he methodically took Sherlock's cash, he glanced up at last, performing a picturesque double-take then eloquently dropped his mug, spilling his espresso all over the desk. After which the thin sputtering imbecile took a step back away from the partition, his eyes wide and face visibly paling. Interesting; obviously, the boy was in fear. How laughable. There were more dangerous people floating about than Sherlock Holmes, two in particular from where he was standing. A serial rapist was just now leaning against the far wall, staring predatorily at a teenage girl with downcast eyes not three meters away and a muscular and tattooed convict who was just now pick-pocketing a middle-aged businessman. Why would anyone think he himself was a threat when the crime was right in front of them, thronging at their backs?

Sherlock outstretched an arm toward the transparent barrier, ice-blue eyes narrowed. "My ticket, please?" he drawled in a monotone. Despite the employee's loud gulp and shaking hands, he complied though slowly and with violent flinches.

"Oh, do shut up," Sherlock murmured not quite under his breath. The detective imperiously rolled his eyes and retrieved the tiny snippet of paper, sprinkling the counter with pig's blood.

Just then, the late morning crowd multiplied drastically; their voices and laughter competing with the screeches and rumbles produced by the passing trains. Unfortunately, that was when the staring became annoyingly prevalent. What was wrong with these people? Couldn't they tell that it was pig's blood marring his sharp features and white shirt and not his own, or another person's for that matter? Really, how many killers wandered about in such a public place looking like this, so obviously bringing attention to himself and thereby getting himself arrested? It was overtly obvious that he wasn't an unstable psychopath. What perfect idiots!

As Sherlock passed through the mechanical turnstile and drifted toward the platform that would lead him to the center of London, the populous gawked at him then turned away, hastily retreating as far from him as they could. The conversations were abruptly cut short, the laughter died. One toddler, upon spying Sherlock's magnificent and blood-drenched harpoon, cried out, "Mummy, look, it's a pirate!" Sherlock felt his mouth curve into a half-smile and his gait become smoother and more dignified. One highlight of this wretched detour that made it almost worth it. Almost.

Strangely enough, Sherlock's unconventional outerwear had one benefit. For instance, instead of fighting a path through the cattle-like droves to the Tube's sliding doors Sherlock was saved from making the effort. In this case, sheer intimidation by virtue of a tall dark-haired man decorated by blood and accompanied by a presumptuously large and appalling implement obliged the pedestrians to scatter as though Sherlock were on fire. Out of nowhere, a breach came into being from where he stood to the train's entry portal. That suited his needs more efficiently. And he was more than delighted to ignore their panic and head straight for the Tube. Even more so once he heard a pair of security guards running behind him in pursuit. But he bypassed the gaping throng and out of the hands of the authorities. It wasn't necessary, of course; Lestrade would have released him without a spot upon his record. But he longed for fun in a black hole of boring. Besides, the expression on their mundane faces was priceless.

On the Tube train itself, the staring ensued. Again, it was useful to have a five foot polar magnetic radius away from the nearest rider. It allowed him a better bench seat and the space in which to stretch and to think. Well, in theory; but, in truth, it was growing more of a task to try to think properly when so many spectators with eyes like saucers filled with liquid fright to the brim persisted in returning them to him before darting away again. Most would make their escape at the next stop only to be replaced by more of the same stock.

The blood on his cheeks and nose were beginning to itch as the drops dried. At least none had stowed away into his mouth as yet.

The situation in of itself was bad enough considering the incessant jolting, the retina-burning fluorescent lighting, and the stench of urine and oil grease stabbing his nostrils, but add the jerky fidgeting and trapped-animal behavior of the other occupants, and it was downright insufferable. Sniffing again-with more emphasis and longevity as well as increased interest this time-Sherlock caught a whiff beyond the more acrid smells to discover leftover cigarette smoke on one of the three commuters he had already deduced were addicts, the one he could tell that had just alleviated his fix. The fragrance was a most familiar brand, one he liked very much. Ever since he had surrendered to the temptation of Mycroft's Christmas gift of a cigarette just after The Woman first faked her death, Sherlock had been plagued by his cravings to have another, just one more that was all. How delightful. And yet detestable, for the tell-tale signs of edginess and trembling, the sheer_ need_, were rising up to shroud his concentration again._ That_ was something he could not abide, could not permit. Nicotine patches just weren't enough anymore, not enough from a single box anyway...

Sherlock scowled and tapped his fingers against the spear he held upright beside his plastic seat, fiddling with its adjoining length of rope. He gave a good attempt at distracting himself with the various advertisements plastered along the walls, criticizing their lack of originality and misuse of English grammar until even that revoked his interest. Then he realized that he was surrounded by adequate subjects for practicing his remarkable deductive skills. His growl of self-abuse remained internal for his neglect.

Lonely construction worker. Alcoholic concierge. Anxiety-ridden secretary. Bipolar housewife. Religious German tourists.

Boring, boring, boring! Why was it so impossible for mankind to be more fascinating?

"Calling the police would be both unwise and unnecessary, so I suggest you put down your mobile," Sherlock advised with an exasperated sigh to a rain-coat clad man not far away from him whose actions proclaimed his supposed clandestine call like a neon beacon.

One more stop to go. Finally; it was almost over.

A twenty-year old girl in an oversized jumper and heavy makeup staggered in just as the train doors closed shut once more. As since she was consumed in the act of texting on her mobile, she did not notice the unnatural conduct of the others or the instigator of it, and so saw no reason against sitting directly in front of him.

Sherlock's keen gaze swept over the young woman, missing nothing. "You should dump the boyfriend. And soon. His ill temper will get worse and so will the beatings. For the sake of your own life and the life of your unborn child, you need to move out and get a restraining order. I would if I were you."

Whipping her head up, the girl seemed perplexed and, like the others, she took in his unsightly guise. Gasping, she dropped her phone and clenched her seat before wrapping her thin legs around the metal poles beneath it. Sherlock's expression softened. "Break up with him today," he said slowly, each word distinct. His eyes held hers until his coming exit was announced on the intercom and the doors separated them.

He hoped she would listen, but doubted it.

The upper entrance to flat 221 B on Baker Street was flung open as Sherlock Holmes made his dramatic and condescending return. He let the harpoon's butt end fall to the floor in exhaustion and stood there for a moment, catching his breath and endeavoring to calm the tension in his body and mind and his latest unpleasant experience.

"Well, that was tedious!" the detective commented, his baritone metaphorically rusted with bitter barbs.

The hateful staring and bugged-out eyes materialized again in the form of Dr. Watson in a lesser form whilst reclining in his chair and scanning the Daily Mail, but in this case his reaction was more along the lines of disbelief and concern than actual distress. That was new. And, Sherlock learned quickly, his tongue was not as frozen.

"You went on the _Tube _like_ that_?" his flatmate asked. Definitely in disbelief.

The curly-haired man's usually impassive face twisted into a grimace of disgust and aggravation. "None of the cabs would take me!"

Sherlock thundered away to his room to grab some clean clothes. Predictably, his best friend followed in his wake before Sherlock could rummage out his purple shirt.

"How could you have _possibly_ have done something like that?" He hovered in the doorway; his hands fisted and mouth a thin line.

"The blood? People have seen worse on the morning report. I did nothing wrong, you know, it's just a harpoon," Sherlock snapped back.

"It's not that, you git! I already know you're more than capable of handling weapons and resisting the adverse effects of-of overexposure to bodily fluids. That's not what I mean. You could have been attacked; you could have been fined, or arrested!" John took a deep breath and shook his head. "There are certain rules of etiquette on the Tube…you shouldn't rupture the delicate balance! _No _one should. People will freak out! Bit not good, Sherlock, seriously."

"And mind, who proclaimed that irrational declaration?"

"It's unspoken, Sherlock. Some things don't need a proclamation. _Most people_ are actually dictated by natural human behavior," the doctor answered pointedly.

"When have social restrictions and proper conduct ever deterred me, John? The work is what matters, nothing else."

John rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded resignedly. "Fine. True enough in your case."

As the small blonde man made as to retreat, Sherlock paused in the midst of his trouser hunt and halted his colleague by saying his name in a low, reserved voice, one so unlike his usual all-knowing self-assured tone that it promptly caught his attention, made him pivot back to face him, startled and worried. The taller man peered up at the doctor with innocently remorseful eyes—eerily close to those of a kicked puppy—and spoke up again. "John…are you still angry with me?"

John huffed. "You're the consulting detective. You figure it out." His utterance that should have been cold and riddled with rage was in fact half-hearted and feeble. And Sherlock knew it. A small grin crossed his face.

Even when the man was a complete and total prat, the doctor still could not turn a proverbial deaf ear or blind eye from the compassionate side of his nature; especially when it involved Sherlock Holmes, the best friend his life had ever been graced with. The ex-soldier accorded his flatmate a meeker reflection of the dark-haired man's expression of mirth.

Sherlock sobered briefly. "I am very sorry for insulting you, John, I am. I can't imagine why you felt that way, but I was unbearably chafed by all the idiotic people on that excruciating Tube and lashed out at you for no reason. I never intended offense, believe me. "

'I see." John hummed in consideration, flicking his eyes to Sherlock's bureau, his nightstand, the ceiling finally returning them to the person himself and nodded. He cleared his throat to respond. "Right, then. Got it."

Turning away for good this time, John added as an afterthought. "The least you could have done was wiped off your face."

The detective smiled in earnest once his flatmate was out of sight.

Another solved case, another thoughtless killer outwitted and defeated, but no one as yet to succeed him…

What to do now?

Sherlock groaned. Upon spotting the harpoon, he seized its staff with a glint of pleasure in his crystal blue eyes, reveling in its assuring weight and magnificence. It inspired panic and therefore would scare away the bunglers. And it made him look devilish to boot. Then and there he decided to keep it and hold it for the remainder of the day. Maybe he could unearth something else to skewer before long, just to stave off boredom for another day, as well as his growing need for a cigarette. Otherwise, he would go mad. And that would be unacceptable.

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**Let me know if you enjoyed it! Comments are greatly appreciated!**

**I'll need some time to continue with this particular story since I will be on vacation then I need to re-watch the episodes to find more ideas for following chapters-poor me I know! Suggestions would help immensely! Thank you!**


	2. The One That Saves Me

**This is a famous scene taken from series one of _Sherlock_, I'm sure everyone will figure out which quickly enough, but it will be from John's side of the story rather than Sherlock's and so I added my own imagination to most of it.**

**I took some of the lines and action from that very scene so I do not own that at all. That honor belongs solely to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and not I, sadly. I did not wish to put down the entire scene though so I am aware that not everything is in there. I tried to shorten it as much as I could since it's better onscreen anyway!**

**Hope you enjoy, ta!**

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_**Harpoon on the Tube**_

_**Chapter 2:**_

_** The One That Saves Me**_

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From beginning to end, the whole episode was strange, unbelievable even. Although he always understood it would occasionally inflict them with trouble and a threat or two, John could never have imagined that Sherlock's brilliance and obsession to apply that brilliance to, namely, his detective work could have ever have dragged them into that terrible hour and the one devil that had led them blindly into it. One moment life was good, more than good with Sherlock as a friend, exciting cases to solve, and the occasional date, the next everything was almost gone.

It all began with the milk; or in this case the lack thereof. All John wanted to do was ensure that, since apparently their latest case had been unraveled, Sherlock would finally give in and get some food into his system, perhaps even a little tea. That was why the good doctor reminded the thin consulting detective of the risotto in the fridge and why he recalled with a sigh that the milk had long disappeared sometime between their comings and goings amidst their recent investigations.

Something in John's head whispered that he ought to be suspicious moments after Sherlock enlisted his own services to do the shopping instead, and without John having to ask him, or yell at him, or threaten him in any way to do just that as was the standard. He should have known by then Sherlock was up to no good. More often than not, John wished he could be as observant or intelligent as his flatmate. But no, he was just as stupid as the masses Sherlock looked down with scornful pomposity upon from his bloody throne in the sky. Worthless that was what John was which was probably why Sherlock had kept his intentions and agenda a secret from his colleague, even though John had been under the delusion that the detective would want him at his side for everything, especially for the more perilous ventures of their uncommon vocation. Now he wasn't quite sure if that was true anymore, or ever was to begin with. Stubborn fool. But to whom he was scolding, himself or Sherlock, he couldn't exactly say.

Unfortunately, John was so taken aback and gladdened by Sherlock's uncharacteristic generosity that he ignored that skeptic twinge of his intuition. And so, the ex-soldier descended the stairs of 221B without a backward glance and out the door, threading his way to Sarah's flat completely unaware that there could be a sinister presence lurking in wait and just licking his proverbial lips. The board was set and their enemy was itching to make the clever and unexpected move toward the white king that could decide the fate of all.

Just before his world dimmed into darkness, John's last thoughts were swimming back and forth between high amusement at the memory of Sherlock yelling at the telly—making predictions and criticisms that were logical but not practical for works of fiction—and calculating his chances of finding his way to Sarah's bed tonight and not just her couch. But then two masked men surrounded and rushed straight for him. Unable to get in a single left hook in edgewise despite his desperate struggles and army training, John's attackers hauled him into the backseat of a long black car, sufficiently destroying hopes of securing any future whatsoever let alone a gratifying one. Within seconds of bumping into the seat cushions, a bag was thrown over his head and his hands bound together, then they were off to who knew where with what unspeakable atrocities in mind.

Panic-stricken and adrenaline-drunk, John attempted to calm his nerves and wild heart by counting the seconds passing until the car halted and he was yanked back out into the cool free air and forced to stumble blindly along the pavement, his assailants silent but persistent. Both were significantly bigger than himself not to mention stronger, so he reluctantly surrendered his plot to make a break for it.

"May I ask where we're going?" John asserted aloud to his faceless and, he guessed, merciless captors, his fear on the verge of playing havoc upon his voice though his anger checked it into an enunciated monotone instead. "Am I allowed to know?"

No answer came.

"I could scream, you know…" His attempt at either a blackmail or humor was lost on both counts to the duet of lackeys.

Doors creaked away from their hinges and John was shoved between them and then down an empty hallway, the change of temperature and the echo of their footfalls against enclosed walls revealing to him their arrival into some sort of building, though his feeble deductive abilities hit a wall there, he was afraid, regardless of his substantial efforts to the contrary. John's limbs were becoming sore and his irritation began to nudge his qualms at an impending death.

Suddenly, the pair of gorillas ceased their stride and released their iron grip upon the doctor's forearms. The next thing he knew, John was relieved of his makeshift blindfold and finally he could see. Shaking his head and blinking against the half-lit room, he took in his surroundings: white tiled floors, white-washed walls, benches stretching down the broad length of the room, and row upon row of lockers—lockers! He must have been brought to a gym or the like, confirmed by the faint scent of chlorine in the air, but he could not imagine why they had done so. Proud of himself for his quick observations, John felt slightly braver now he knew where he was. And yet, his encouragement was short-lived once he noted a shadowy figure leaning up against a laundry bin a few yards to his left.

The man had dark slicked-back hair, ferret-like features, and his smallish figure was fitted in a dapper tailored suit and tie that no doubt cost more quid than John could boast of his entire bank account. Yet what was off-putting was the feeling John got from him, like something was off about him, not quite right. Like he should run and hide from this sheep-skinned wolf before the latter pounced upon him with fangs at the ready. How ridiculous. He could take this wanker down before he could beg for mercy. If only there weren't guns involved, and in the hands of his ill-minded spectators that had accompanied him from Baker Street.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," the nameless man drawled, his Irish accent and voice sickly sweet and a bit…familiar. So was his face with its dark deranged eyes and thin lips that were quirked with morbid delight. John knew him but he could not quite figure as to why or how. "You're probably wondering why you've been brought here, but no need to worry. You'll understand soon enough."

John didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit. He gulped. "Oh? Care to enlighten me now before I break your nose instead?"

His host widened his small eyes and erupted into a squirrely guttural laugh that scraped across John's nerves like a razor blade. "Feisty one, isn't he mates? Understandable why he likes you, and keeps you around…"

"Right…sorry, who are we talking about now? I'm a bit confused."

"Nothing new there," the Mystery Criminal scathingly replied with a grimace of mock sympathy.

And, just like that, John remembered. Remembered who his kidnapper might be once he heard that crazed giggle and glanced up into that face again.

"The hospital," John burst out. "You're …you're that IT bloke from Bart's, the one dating Molly Hooper who's…"

"Gay?" the young man asked with an arrogant lilt, his smirk deepening into something that mirrored the maniacal qualities of that of a villain in a James Bond film. "Call me Jim. What an amusing role to take on. That was an awfully fun moment in the lab, meeting you both at last. Too bad it was so brief, wouldn't you say? Now, enough of the pleasantries, they're always so drab and…_ordinary_," he added, pulling a disgusted expression. Unbidden, memories of Sherlock assailed John against his will, Jim's words and attitude reminding him all too much of his friend; he just couldn't resist comparing their similarities. He shuddered in revulsion.

"It's time now to carry on with the main act of my little production, the more entertaining bits just before the grand finale."

John endeavored to keep his voice as light and uncaring as possible. "I think I'll forgo the participation this time, I think," he stated simply which only succeeded in eliciting a few _tsks_ clicking off of the delinquent's grey tongue.

"No, no, no, now don't start that, you'll regret it if you do because you'd be about to miss the juiciest part of all. You wouldn't want to miss Sherlock's noble end."

The doctor's stomach plunged until it hit rock bottom and his head grew dizzy at this unforeseen declaration and the world seemed to still in his dread, the tell-tale sign that it would soon explode or simply wither away if his friend did not live to cherish the dawn. He was so terrified at the notion of Sherlock in danger, real actual danger by this crazed character that he only half-listened in his torment as Jim continued. "You'll just love this, darling." Jim clicked his fingers and before John could fully comprehend the goings-on, he was strapped into an expansive black vest that swallowed him whole and very nearly propelled him to the floor with its unexpected weight, but when he regained his stability and balance once more he almost had to repeat the action. Brow bent and lips tipped downward in mystification, John peered down his chin to his front. And received a shock of newly-whetted panic that pierced him like a dagger, like a lightning strike that liquefied his legs and sped up his breathing patterns. Clinging to his jumper-enwrapped chest was a creative array of beeping red lights, black boxes with multi-colored wires…and brick after brick of Symtex explosives.

"My theatrics are unparalleled, you'll see. Even better than those of your dear Sherlock Holmes," Jim sneered maliciously.

On any ordinary day, John admitted that he loved the thrill of adventure, of the risk it entailed and how it made him feel so alive, but frankly, this was too much. Far too much to bear.

John's body trembled as sweat began to prickle along his skin and his heart drummed out a jagged, hopeless dirge. Of course, he had plummeted into life-and-death situations before both in Afghanistan, like when a bullet had shattered his shoulder, and afterwards, ever since Sherlock had so gracefully and spectacularly crossed the threshold into his life, but none of the past situations had been so—so uncompromising, so lacking in a backdoor. More importantly, though, the mixture of elements in that moment made John realize something that would have stirred a rare sincere smile and a leap of joy from his colleague.

"Moriarty," John murmured in a tone that exposed his horror and aversion, his bemusement and surprise. A bitter but breathy laugh escaped him. "I can't believe it. You're Moriarty, the one who's been after us from the beginning, who killed all those people, the bomber!"

The accused's eyebrows shot up then waggled significantly at the end of his confession. "Ah, so you've put my little puzzle pieces together, then? How clever of you, John. But no, I never killed anyone. Too low an occupation for me. I have more important things to do than drive the knife home, bigger fish to fry, you see," he hissed conspiratorially behind a hand before he straightened up once more. "Do exactly as I instruct, dear Johnny boy, or you won't be alive long enough to witness your precious partner's losing face before scraps of his body are scattered from here to Kingdom Come. If there even is such a thing. But you get me, hmm?"

One of Moriarty's trolls then stuffed a transparent earpiece into the side of John's head and threw a green parka over his stiff shoulders, completing the ensemble. "Wonderful," John muttered to himself whilst he was roughly escorted down a short hallway and before a door with a small window, waiting for his cue to plod through it. A few minutes of eternity crawled by before he was standing beside an indoor pool, with his best friend on the other side, holding aloft that bloody thumb drive of the missile plans, the one he said he had already handed over to that government official brother of his. The sting of discovering his lie was a minor one, for now.

The humid air and the glare jumping off of the water were already affecting him.

But the only thing worse than having Jim Moriarty's voice in his head, courtesy of the receiver in his ear, and being coerced into parroting his repulsive and barmy victory speech that shot bile into his mouth was being the victim of Sherlock's stare which, according his sunken frown, was no longer impassive or annoyed as was the detective's trademark but rather more along the lines of pained and haunted, vulnerable even. Those icy blue orbs that could see through walls and never owned to a care in the world were now filled to the brim with some odd emotion like hurt but…deeper. The ex-soldier's heart clenched. What was it?

"_John_?" Sherlock breathed in disbelief. "What the hell—"

Oh, that's what it was: betrayal. Sherlock…felt betrayed by him? But how could that be? He never did anything wrong against him…Oh, yet again. The younger man thought his flatmate was Moriarty. Now who was the stupid one? John knew one thing for certain: He never wanted that look to touch Sherlock's face ever again as long as he lived, which he hoped would somehow last longer than Moriarty's tolerance for his playthings.

_Sherlock, you're the genius, here! Get us out of this!_ John tried to scream unnecessarily with his eyes.

Once Moriarty actually challenged to stop John Watson's heart and the doctor pulled open the parka to unveil the bomb attached to his small form and the laser of a sniper emphasizing the point, Sherlock's childlike misery at his loss melted into calm defiance and John breathed freely once more. Maybe there was a chance for their survival, maybe. And that was when Moriarty himself slunk onto the stage of the pool room and Sherlock produced John's service handgun from the back of his trousers, his posture elegant, his stance enviable. Sherlock had much more experience with a gun than John realized; and not just to shoot walls.

John sighed in relief then rolled his eyes. Toting his gun along to a precarious meeting with a criminal mastermind would have been, under everyday circumstances, a smart thoughtful idea on Sherlock's part had it not been for the presence of the Symtex. It just seemed like Sherlock was bringing forth a knife to a gunfight. They would both be dead before the bullet hit its target. Now their desperation and foolishness was more obvious. They were officially doomed.

"You all right?" Sherlock queried with a concerned light in his eyes. After Moriarty stepped morbidly close to John's shoulder, the latter met the detective's look and nodded once to his colleague.

So unspeakably gripped with distress, John was only half-aware of Sherlock and Moriarty's banter-accented exchange. The familiar baritone and creepy countertenor swirled by him without too much consideration because he was simply too focused on any minute indication of physical aggression from the gray-suited man, any sign that he was about to lunge for Sherlock's jugular, that John didn't care about anything else; he was much too strung up, ready to defend the detective if the moment presented itself, and he was sure it would.

And his wish was soon granted.

When Sherlock relinquished the thumb drive over to Moriarty (How could he _do_ that! Just give him exactly what he wanted!) and, to John's shock, kissed it then tossed it carelessly into the pool, John made his move, rushing at Jim Moriarty's back and restraining the man with his arms. "Sherlock, run!"

"Good!" Jim laughed. "_Very_ good."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John rasped.

But Jim's tactics changed and just like that the laser fell onto Sherlock's forehead and John's heart capsized. Damn. John had no other choice but to yield and retreat. Shown his hand, indeed. Being wrested from his one opportune opening for liberating them both from that nightmare was more upsetting than having none at all. Now it was even more difficult for John to breathe and think without his sense of urgency shrieking in his head and the writhing in his stomach to intensify. They were running low on time. If only Moriarty's sadistic impulses included keeping them alive for a while longer. For all the uncertainties, John knew one thing beyond a doubt: Without a twinge of regret, John would be not only willing but glad to sacrifice his own life for his friend. It would be worth it. If only it could be that easily sorted…

_I tried, Sherlock, I tried. I'm so sorry, please forgive me._

Even though he wasn't too keen on listening most of the time, there were however, aside from their enemy's occasional outbursts that made John wince, two bits of the proceedings in particular that did reach through his concentration more clearly. One concerned Sherlock's obvious admiration and fascination with Jim's "business" as a criminal consultant which thoroughly sickened the compassionate doctor to no end. It caused him to groan inwardly. How could Sherlock say or think such positive things about their nemesis? But then, he was Sherlock and anything not boring was worth his approval and applause. He knew Sherlock well enough to not question the integrity of his intentions. Secondly, Moriarty's life's pursuit was to burn Sherlock's heart.

…Wait, what?

Sherlock's response was typical for him. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty countered.

That was…that was nonsense! Sherlock didn't care about anyone or anything, not really, but for being brilliant and proving it to everyone. His flatmate simply didn't harbor a heart to burn; the man wasn't even capable of feeling much in terms of emotions. Well, except when he thought John was Moriarty. But that was a matter of being right and had nothing to do with actual caring, easily explained away. Their ferret-like captor's bravado was wasted; he didn't know Sherlock at all. The warning to try for an existing mark and not an imaginary one was on the tip of John's tongue but Moriarty was already saying his twisted goodbyes.

_Shoot him, Sherlock! Just sodding shoot him and get it over with!_

"Catch you later," Sherlock stated slowly and matter-of-factly.

"No you won't!" came the sing-song reply.

John shivered. He was gone. Silence hung heavy in the damp air.

Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock was there, on one knee before John, frantically untying and tearing off the deadly vest whilst asking anxiously if he was all right.

"Yeah, yeah," John answered in bewilderment and wearinss. "I'm fine…Sherlock. Sherlock!" Dazed, he rubbed his head and peered over at as his friend who pitched the bomb to the far side of the room. Was Sherlock…worried about him? Couldn't be. It was impossible.

As Sherlock checked the door, John's courage and strength abandoned him and he collapsed, sinking to the floor and cursing and breathing hard in his exasperation.

Sherlock rubbed the tip of John's gun against the side of his head.

"You okay?" the doctor pressed quietly.

"Me? Yeah, fine, I'm fine."

Apparently not, John thought.

"That er," Sherlock cleared his throat. "That thing that you, er, did, that thing you offered to do that was erm…good."

Time for the renowned humor to shine through and save the day. John couldn't suffer Sherlock restlessly pacing like that, knowing how his composure was beginning to crack a little. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?"

"You…ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

"People do little else." And there it was that confident half-smile on his colleague's face that made the world brighten and mended all wounds until it whatever plaguing ailment disappeared as though it never was. That made him think everything would turn out right in the end.

But he was wrong.

Out of nowhere, the little red dots reappeared, on both himself and Sherlock. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real! They were stupid enough to think all was well. But hell returned, after all.

"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty's fruity voice proclaimed, not sounding sorry at all. "I am s_ooo_ changeable! It is a weakness, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

What an arrogant bugger! John shut out the rest of his mad reasoning.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock glanced down at his friend for confirmation. Strangely, John knew exactly what he was wordlessly asking and John nodded curtly as his permission to shoot the pile of Symtex, ready for anything, even the final showdown. John was profoundly honored that Sherlock turned to him in their last moments. The proof of Sherlock's respect for John made the doctor's heart fly and bolstered his spirit regardless of death stampeding straight for them.

At least they would die together.

But no, he couldn't allow Sherlock to stop breathing. He couldn't have that, absolutely not. Not just for the sake of London's safety from criminals like this one under Sherlock's omniscient guard, but for his own sake. The very thought of Sherlock not making it through the close shaves this time made his entire body and soul ache with cold grief. Instead, John considered the swimming pool. Perhaps if he shoved Sherlock into it, the water might prevent the worst, deflect most of the blast and protect them from the explosion. It would save them—if it actually worked. Their chances were slight at best, but it was still a chance. And his timing would have to be perfect. John swallowed hard and shimmied to a crouching position, ready to bolt once the gun went off. There were too few milliseconds in that gap and too many factors that could mean failure, but it was far superior to admitting defeat completely.

It was better than losing his best friend.

And yet, all his despairing maneuvers were unneeded, for once that out-of-place American '70's disco tune began to chime, their prayers were answered and they were uncannily set free, for real this time. Rescued by an enigmatic phone call. Who knew? Seemed small and unimportant an event but it was enough to deliver them. Through fair weather destiny or merely by the whims of luck, they were still breathing and able to rise to their feet and face another day to battle against the scoundrels of the city. John could hardly believe it.

Straight after Jim Moriarty walked out of the door and Sherlock shook himself from his deductive trance, the dark-haired detective hastened to John's side, practically hoisted him to a standing position without gentleness or a word, and firmly ushered the doctor away from the pool and what might have happened there, the tall man's face paler than usual.

"Sherlock…Sherlock." John sought to wriggle away from his flatmate's steely grasp to no avail. "Wait, they left my shooting jacket in the locker room. I need to get it, please."

"No, John, we're leaving. Now," Sherlock persisted, his quicksilver eyes sharp and unbending.

"But what about your scarf and the Belstaff?"

Sherlock hesitated, brow furrowed, mind determining odds, probabilities, worst case scenarios…he nodded. "Hurry."

"We could split up, it'd be faster."

Sherlock's head snapped down to him, his face and tone abruptly frightening. "No." And with that, John reckoned it was best not to argue.

John sighed and was more than happy to comply with the request. They practically ran to the locker room where John peeked into the far corner and scooped up his dark coat and Sherlock did the same with his from a hook in the entrance hallway and they were off.

The great Sherlock Holmes redirected John's instinct to depart through the front door and guided him to the opposite end of the building from the pool and snuck out that way, neglecting John's protests all the while.

From the instant John shrugged on his jacket, Sherlock had clenched onto his friend's shoulder and refused to let it go as they crept onto the pavement and down the nearest alley. Admittedly, John felt better with Sherlock's hand there as a tactile comfort, as reassurance and an allusion of safety, even though it was tight enough to cut off his circulation. Feeling the aftereffects of shock, it kept John up and moving, not to mention sane and warm despite his lack of Belstaff coat which Sherlock tried to thrust onto him as well but John was adamant that the thin man wore it himself and quit coddling him. The detective's other hand still idly fingered John's Beretta.

They wove as one through the backstreets, Sherlock insisting they dart from shadow to shadow and keep silent. His eyes, dark with a fierce emotion of some kind that made him seem predatory, flickering everywhere at once as though anticipating an attack from every street corner. And maybe he was right. It was better to be cautious after what they had just gone through. But John was still puzzled beyond belief as to why Sherlock was acting this way. It wasn't like him at all. It was almost against his nature to be so paranoid and ready to kill. Why was he doing this? There seemed no sense to it. If he wasn't Sherlock but any other normal individual, John would have assumed he was uneasy about their safety. To be honest, John had expected him to be leaping for joy about now at blissfully raving at finally being able to enjoy a criminal that was cunning and competent enough to withstand the competition. But no, John was wrong and not for the first time. What was bothering him then?

"Where are we going? And why aren't we getting a cab by now? I want to go home…"

"Not yet."

John groaned. His legs were about to sue him for abuse. The adrenaline's absence was draining him and he felt like he was about to crumble if he didn't surrender to the embrace of his a bed soon. All in all, he felt like hell.

"Why not?" he griped.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock snapped back.

"Not to me," John ground out through clenched teeth.

"We have to find somewhere he might not consider we'd go. He'll be watching our flat…"

"He—what? Oh, you've got to be joking! I'm never going to get a break am I?"

"Ah!" Sherlock cried.

And John violently started.

"Here we are." Sherlock gestured across the street with a finger where there stood at attention a polished white building ornamented with Corinthian columns and a plaque denoting it as the Diogenes Club. Oh. Now John understood. He sighed, not quite in the mood for the company of Sherlock's elder brother. But it wasn't his choice; if Sherlock deemed it necessary to call upon the condescending, self-righteous aid of the government official then there was nothing to be done to avert their disagreeable course. Instead, John followed his flatmate into the spa for the country's elite and into the office of Mycroft Holmes. Of course, even at this hour, the long-nosed, ginger-haired man was there studying reports and downing a bottle of high-class whiskey.

Quickly and without his usual air of smug extravagance, Sherlock recounted to his tall sibling their…invigorating experience with Moriarty and arranged for more security at Baker Street.

John was appalled. Mycroft already had cameras in their flat? Scowling, John tried to detach himself from the uncomfortable unpleasantness of the notion but he wasn't quite victorious. He stretched his arm toward the bottle of biting liquor and searched for a second glass as Sherlock phoned Lestrade to inform him of the same data and fish after the reenactment of the same request, affirming the seriousness of their situation.

An hour later, Sherlock and John were convoyed back home and, at long last, John was permitted to slump up the stairs to his bedroom and journey into the heedless indifference of the abyss of slumber. Yet John was dumbfounded to find Sherlock half-carrying him there. Dumbfounded but relieved at the assistance.

About three in the morning, John bolted awake from a replay of Moriarty's almost-murders and headed out of the door intending to splash cold water on his face or brew a cuppa but was prevented. Upon taking a step into the hallway, John almost toppled over due to the fact that something was there on the floor, impeding his progress and the reprieve of his sudden insomnia.

The former soldier, who accounting for tonight, had endured a wide range of atrocities and near-death experiences in every manner and style possible and confronted them without a whimper or plea for clemency, was now reduced to a sputtering and simpering coward whose faint heart had frozen and insides seemed to jostle and coil nauseatingly. A part of him was threatening to shred itself apart and he didn't know how to thwart it.

"No, no, no, no."

Before John's sock-covered feet, directly beside his doorway, lay a sprawled, unmoving Sherlock Holmes. Stumbling to his knees in sorrow and alarm, John suspected the worse—that someone had broken into the flat and done something unthinkable to his best friend. Doctor training kicking into high gear, John jammed two fingers against the detective's neck, breathing once more once he felt a strong pulse beating there and then, perceiving no injury by either sight or touch, proceeded to shake the man's shoulders.

Like a tiger awakened from a nap, Sherlock's upper half shot up into the air, scanning about himself as though predicting a fight. Instead, he glimpsed John Watson watching him with a disturbing strain in his cheeks and jaw and eyes that were too bright, too wet. Shifting his gaze downward as though in shame or embarrassment, Sherlock leaned his lithe form up against the doorjamb, reeled in his knees against his chest, and folded his pallid arms over them.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Of course!" Sherlock sneered.

"Are you hurt?"

This elicited one of Sherlock's imperiously irritated glares.

"Well then, what are you doing? You scared me half out of my wits, you know! I thought you were…" John swallowed, unable to finish the terrible thought. "Sherlock, why are you sleeping in front of my door and not in your own bed?"

Sherlock's piercing blue eyes stubbornly evaded John's hazel pair and gave a small cough.

"Well?" John persevered.

"I—I couldn't sleep very well, more than usual. And I was…distressed."

"Distressed, you? Why, Sherlock? Please, it's okay."

"No, it's not." Those frosty eyes slowly meandered up to John's blonde head and John gasped at what he saw there, the orbs raw and burning with pain and all out panic. It made John ache just to regard them. "I was afraid Moriarty would come back tonight, John. I almost lost you. And I couldn't fall asleep analyzing how many ways he could slither inside without Mycroft's detection and with what methods he could hurt you. I just couldn't let that happen, not again. I can't let him finish the job. You are always the one who saves me, John. I want to be the one to save you for once."

John was stunned.

He was beyond words, beyond understanding; in truth, he had never felt so out of his realm, so unprepared he was to be subject of a confession. His heart swelled and glowed, his relief and happiness buoying him up. He had never had a true friend before, not really, never to this extent anyway, with such powerful affection, trust, and devotion reverberating between them like a force field or something; he just needed him, and maybe Sherlock needed him, as well. For not the first time, John was staggered with a new revelation: Sherlock was nothing like Moriarty at all; no, they were absolute opposites. They may both be obsessive, brilliant, self-assured, and, yes, even rather scary. But there was an immense difference. Their hearts and souls were what diverged between them; for where Moriarty's were blackened and wilted and corrupted by the poison of mankind, Sherlock's own were, although a little scarred and barbed, full and stout and lively enough to compete with the champions, perhaps he could even best them. Sherlock was the hero and Moriarty the villain, as black-and-white as it appeared, that was the only way to describe them.

After several long moments of staring intently and fervently into those tortured windows to the soul and they staring back at him, John huffed out a considerable breath and rose, ducking into his bedroom once more.

"John?" Sherlock dug his fingers into the carpet, suspicious of being rejected of friendship like it had always been for him since birth.

But there was no reason to worry for John reappeared in less than a minute with two pillows and an expansive afghan in hand. The pillows thumped to the floor and John chased them there, his short compact body prostrate beside his door. "I know how you feel, Sherlock. I know. You're my best friend, after all. I wouldn't be able to cope without you either. I'm your blogger, remember?" John stretched out on the ground with the quilt over himself, and closed his eyes. He pretended to relax but was actually listening carefully until he heard Sherlock unfold himself and slide down next to John. The detective grappled for some of the blanket and John let him have his share.

"How else would all of England learn of my unparalleled genius?"

John smiled. Truly he did feel like he was being saved, and knew Sherlock would always be there to defend him, deflect away the bullets, and catch him if he tripped. "Exactly. Goodnight, Sherlock."

And, feeling the warmth of each other's company and backsides, they floated into the peaceful and dreamless arms of Morpheus until the sun wheeled well into a cloudless sky and their war against crime forged ahead. But, together, they were unconquerable. Their foes feared them and the fear was merited.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. And before anyone asks or wonders, no this was not intended to be a Johnlock piece. Just cutsey bromance. I don't write Johnlock fics as a rule, sorry to disappoint.**

**Please comment! Reviews are greatly appreciated. And cheers for the support so far! More is on the way, I promise. But I will be going back and forth between this story and my other entitled "The Case of the Disneyland Ripper" so I appreciate the patience. **


	3. A Scandal in Bethlehem

**I finally added the next chapter! **

**Considering the time of year, I decided to do the only missing piece in the episodes that involves Christmas.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Harpoon on the Tube

_**Chapter Three:**_

_**A Scandal in Bethlehem**_

_**OR **_

_**We Two Bachelors**_

* * *

Whistling a merry tune at the top of his lungs, John Watson descended the stairs to the sitting room of 221 B after having unearthed his favorite Christmas jumper from his old moving boxes and spread it out onto his bed with gentle fingers, hoping it would air out in time for their small Christmas Eve party in two days' time. He decided against washing it for it was his favorite and didn't want to risk the mayhem of the machine unraveling it.

An aggravated sigh spouted from the vicinity of the sofa once John crossed the threshold.

"Do refrain from that insipid noise you call music-making. I'm trying to _think_!"

Far too accustomed to such ill treatment, John gave no more than an idle glance over to his flatmate who was clad in his blue dressing gown and sprawled lazily, not to mention oddly—the younger man's head only inches from the floor with his mop of black curls splayed upside down and his pale neck resting on the seat cushions and his impossibly long legs in the air above him, bare ankles crossed against the length of the fleur-de-lis wall, the yellow smiley face's grin daring the doctor to contest its master's wishes. John chose to defy the ignoble drawing and persisted in his whistling as though the command was not directed at him. Instead, he simply padded over to the post that had been thrown onto the small side table beside his chair and began to peruse the adverts and disturbing bills he unearthed there with feigned interest.

"_John_!" Sherlock griped, his blatant irritation making his friend smile to himself.

With a look of innocence, John explained, "Just a yuletide carol to try and generate some Christmas spirit in this cheerless flat, no harm in that."

Sherlock huffed. "I beg to differ."

"It's Christmas, Sherlock—"

"Not by my calendar," Sherlock corrected imperiously.

"All right then, it's the Christmas s_eason_ and I wish to enjoy it while it lasts, thank you very much."

"Oh, how boring!" Sherlock flung one arm over his eyes, the other clenching the Union Jack pillow.

Hazel eyes turned up at the ceiling, John slowly shook his head. Upwards of thirty years under the man's belt and an I.Q. the scale of a genius, and Sherlock still acted like a petulant child sometimes. Well, a lot of the time, actually. He decided it was best to stop the whistling for now and try for a subject change instead of arguing themselves into dizzy circles. "What exactly are you thinking about that demands perfect silence, Sherlock?"

"Doesn't matter, you wouldn't understand the calculations anyhow."

John's hands stilled momentarily over the letters as a tiny flare of anger spewed into his chest.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock consoled half-heartedly. Even though John's back was facing his colleague and therefore he couldn't read his expression, tenseness in his posture must have given him away to those ever-keen eyes of the detective. Sod Sherlock's flawless deductive skills and his crippled manners or the lack thereof.

Chuffing through his nose, John slumped heavily into his chair with the newspaper, studiously ignoring the consulting detective's sharp gaze.

Before Sherlock could start accusing John of being angry or give a lecture on how irrational and useless emotions were, John changed tactics yet again. "Remember, our friends are coming over on Christmas Eve—that's two days from now—for a get together and before you ask, yes, you must be present there and yes, you must socialize with each and every one of our guests, politely and with a smile on your face so don't even try getting out of it because it won't work."

The detective groaned loudly. Then silence succeeded.

"…John?"

"No."

"_John_!"

"Absolutely not. There is no valid reason, short of death, that will excuse you from this one."

"What about fatal illness…?"

John turned to confront his friend whose angled face was threatening to show his burgeoning horror and repulsion. Even from the detective's reverted position on the sofa, John could decipher that, despite being deprived of a mind as brilliant as his colleague's. The man's scowl at his evident unhappiness was the least of John's worries come Christmas Eve, he could predict that already.

Raising his eyebrows, John said, "You do realize I'm a doctor, right, and therefore can tell the difference between faking it and real sickness?"

For a moment, Sherlock lowered his eyes, his "thinking" expression finding its comfortable, familiar fixture there.

"And don't even _dare_ try and find a way to catch something from the morgue or anywhere else for that matter or then I'll be really truly angry!"

Sherlock growled, "What a stupid sorry excuse of a holiday! Inconveniencing everyone, for what? An irrational greed for _stuff_ and a chance to be lazy and _jolly_! Why would people want to surround themselves with people they can't stand otherwise? Not my kind of holiday!" He shut his eyes before shoving the Union Jack pillow over his face to mutter incomprehensible curses into the soft material, knowing he had been overruled and derailed from the only clever devices he had left in his arsenal. Suddenly, he lowered the red-and-blue-and-white pillow from his nose, regarding John with a smug lilt to his lip and a devilish light in his ice-blue eyes. His flatmate recognized that look all too well.

_Uh oh._

"They'll be coming here?"

John nodded once, wary and fearful. "Yeah…"

Sherlock shifted, rotating his body in a more normal posture on the cushions—well, as "normal" as Sherlock Holmes could get, anyway. "Have you seen the state of this place, John?" He waved his arm about in a vague gesture to emphasize the sitting room which was cluttered with scraps of paper, bits of food, used teacups, and battered furniture; the kitchen as well, which was amassed with science equipment, half-done experiments, poisonous chemicals, and body parts—dirty dishes the least of their problems. The ex-soldier's hazel eyes followed Sherlock's finger all the while. "Hardly fit for company," Sherlock scoffed.

John's face visibly fell, a feeling of despair gathering like dark clouds above his head.

"And what about this 'great season' that you keep going on about relentlessly? Not one hint of holly in sight. Shameful!" Sherlock shook his head and frowned in satirized disgrace.

"Oh my…"

Sherlock's grin of triumph grew immeasurably, whilst stretching out his neck toward his friend beseechingly. "Exactly. So why don't you make the wise decision and phone everyone back, make up some excuse, and be done with the whole ridiculous notion. We're just two bachelors, John. How would we know how to host a holiday _party_?" With the last two words, he sneered. Sometimes, John thought, he could almost punch the arrogant twat in the mouth.

Leaping to his feet and letting go of _The Daily Mail_ which fluttered like dead leaves to the floor, John stuttered, "But—you—I…We can't! We can't cancel it now. I'll—I'll get some decorations, a tree! We don't even have a tree, what has come over me?" He ran a frustrated hand through his blonde hair. "You have to help me, Sherlock, please."

"No," he retorted curtly, his tone ringing with finality. "It was your idea. You can do the work…or just make it easy on us both and call it off now before it gets too late."

"Not a chance." John checked his watch. "I've still got time."

Hastily, he shrugged on his bomber's jacket with sizable difficulty considering the collar and sleeve kept getting in the way or caught on itself. Then he made as to go until he came to an abrupt halt in the act of grabbing for his keys at a sound that should have been shocking and confusing and completely out of place, but actually had become rather less so the past number of weeks but was still something to urge any warm-blooded man to pause in whatever he was doing and uplift his head in rapt fixation and with a lick to their lips in heated curiosity.

From the mantelpiece, somewhere beside Billy the Skull and the wood-stuck knife, there emitted a sort of exasperated breath of…well, of feminine pleasure; there was no other way of describing it, really. After glancing up sharply with a quizzical brow, John noted Sherlock's mobile lying carelessly right where the noise seemed to have originated.

That was it. John Hamish Watson had had enough.

The good doctor pocketed his keys and proceeded to step toward the hearth but was surpassed by his flatmate who, like a flash of lightning, rushed ahead of his reach and cut him off at the pass. With back to the fireplace and arms crossed protectively over his phone, its rightful owner glared down at John with a disdainful sniff, obviously affronted and unrelenting. They stood there staring at each other, silently battling for possession. Eventually, John, as per usual, surrendered with a heavy breath. He wanted to know, was _dying_ to know but was less inclined to pry and obsess over small things for sake of curiosity than his colleague here.

Hands up in the air in defeat, John's arms then slowly but surely folded themselves over his chest in partially-accidental mimic of his companion who continued to stay as still as stone with that guilt-inducing suspicion mottling the taller man's features.

"Fine," John spat through clenched jaw. "It's your phone, after all." After a few seconds of the awkward quiet and that bloody stubborn chin thrust up in the air in sheer defiance, John simply couldn't take it anymore. "You could at least check it, could be interesting…"

Sherlock merely grimaced. At last, a reaction.

John began to roll back-and-forth between his heels and the balls of his feet. Clearing his throat, he pressed on, "What does…'The Woman' have to say this time, hmm?"

The detective's eyes seemed to burn through John.

I'd like to know seeing as how I was on the case just as much as you were. And that she almost killed you last time we saw her." John stopped his fidgeting, gazing up at Sherlock with genuine emotion and sheer desperation. "I'm your friend. I need to know so I know what to do next time; so I know how to help you…"

Finally, Sherlock broke eye contact and bent down to pick up the newspaper, John readily lending him a hand, briefly entertaining the idea of pickpocketing the mobile from his flatmate but knew he would not be successful and that he would further prove himself a complete idiot. Besides, he couldn't bring himself to do that after how Sherlock looked at him.

"The texts are nothing of importance, John, believe me. I'm in no danger, obviously, so calm your silly fretting, you're more and more like a mother hen every day, honestly!" And with that, the world's best and only detective snorted and flapped his robe closer to his thin body, drifted away without a backward glance, and shut himself in his bedroom, sufficiently ending the conversation and winning the argument if there ever was one in the first place.

Helplessly, John lingered there beside his armchair, racking his entire being to uncover what he ought to do, whether to burst through Sherlock's room and perform an impromptu intervention, demand answers and tell him exactly what he should say to that deadly, although admittedly attractive, criminal dominatrix Irene Adler…or do nothing and walk away. The former was more satisfying, but the latter more practical and probably more useful in the long run. He surveyed the details of Sherlock's door as though it were absolutely vital to learn every speck and pock to it, hoping to gain some knowledge from them, to strain them for a way to solve this new wellspring of troubles.

Was there anything he could do? He doubted it. But in the very least, he wished he could understand what was going on in Irene's head, in Sherlock's, if that was even possible, even for a deity. What could she be texting him all this time? Could Sherlock be demonstrating nothing more than just fascination brought about by her ability to outwit him, or could there be actual infatuation there, inconceivable as it seemed?

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John growled in frustration.

If only there was some method of ensuring Sherlock's safety, of his…contentment, other than leaving an ingeniously-derived crime scene behind for him to solve, that is. But there wasn't. Not for anyone for that matter. The army doctor's heart and stomach twisted, sunk, and turned cold at the unknown, at not being able to aid his best friend this time. Yet, there was nothing for it; nothing to do about it. The realization made him ache inside.

Nodding in solemn resignation and jutting out his jaw, John flexed the fingers of his left hand and, upon recalling his original mission to rectify the appallingly hideous state of their flat and how offensively un-Christmas-y it was, he marched stolidly to the downward stairs and out the door of 221B, forsaking Sherlock to his self-devised misfortunes. For now.

Ah, hell with it!

ↄ∞ↄ

After hunting through tree lot after tree lot, John finally came upon one that actually had trees left for sale in it. With only two days left before such business ventures were rendered worthless, he considered himself lucky.

Shivering in his coat and berating himself for being so stupid as to wear his everyday one and not his warmer one, the ex-army doctor stood with arms clutching his sides as he inspected the pitiful remnants of the tree-like specimens offered to him and gained nothing but heart-rending disappointment in return. In the background, the jolly electric-guitar-infused tune "Rockin' around the Christmas Tree" was tumbling down from hidden speakers and through the bone-chilling air to end up in John's frost-bitten ears. Under ordinary circumstances, John would have started humming along with Brenda Lee, tapping a foot in time with the rhythm with a drunkenly blissful expression glowing on his face. Instead, considering the irony of the situation and how it ate away at his hopes and expectations, the strains merely mocked him, and cruelly at that. If there was a single rock in the whole desolate place, he would use it to his advantage: To propel it at the nearest speaker and knock it off its wires.

Whilst stamping his feet and bouncing atop the pavement to try and revive a margin of his natural body temperature, John skirted the bedraggled and haggard pines then neglected the mountain-high blues that could only fit in Buckingham Palace…or Mycroft's house. Ultimately, John discovered a spruce that was perhaps a little ragged and downtrodden along the edges, but would do in a pinch for two blokes such as they. In an attempt to test out how sturdy or dry the tree limbs might be, he stretched out his hand and gave the branch a good wiggle until a stab of pain jolted through his hand. Withdrawing it, he found his finger bleeding.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, bending over and peering deeper into the pine needles. Two beady eyes gleaming from the dark depths were all he glimpsed before a large bushy-tailed squirrel sprang out of the tree, squawking at the top of its little lungs. John jerked back in alarm. Fortunately, the tiny beast merely landed on the edge of the limb to voice his strident complaints at him.

"Er…all right. I'm guessing you live here, eh? Sorry, I'll just go then…" John held up his hands to try and placate the creature, backing away from the conflict all the while. Sighing, John moved on but there wasn't a scrub of foliage in the place that he felt was satisfactory enough to display for Christmas. And once he read the price tag, his pulse skipped a beat. Now he knew for certain he was doomed.

With wounded heart, John trudged away from the lot empty handed, feeling dangerously close to desperate despair and sudden sympathy for Charlie Brown. What was he going to do now? Oh well, he would have had to fork out even more money for ornaments and lights anyway…

Wait, lights! Of course! What a fool he was.

John stopped midstride, a genuine smile spreading across his face at last. If he couldn't find a tree, then why not decorate the flat with lights without one?

Brilliant, utterly brilliant!

Revived once more, John feverishly hotfooted it to the nearest Tesco's, an idea finally blooming, helping a warm light shine through the dark clouds of his hopelessness. The jubilant spirit of Christmas was officially making its appearance, making his heart dance and his soul fly. But there was much still yet to do…

ↄ∞ↄ

Finding himself whistling happily once more, John unloaded the shopping onto the table, putting away the few items he got for the kitchen first such as the milk, a jar of honey, and a few treats destined for their party guests' eager stomachs as well as their own. Then he got to work on the decorations. With an astounding degree of effort he never thought necessary, John managed to claw through the boxes of lights and other packages, utilizing both a pair of scissors and Sherlock's knife so he could spill their contents onto his armchair only to have them slide off to the floor. Muttering a few choice oaths, John retrieved them and began to unwind them before realizing his mistake.

How was he going to hang them when he forgot to buy tacks or the like?

Damn it.

With a grumble to himself, John searched the flat for a few minutes for anything to make the strings of lights stick, coming up with nothing. As a last resort, he guiltily descended the stairs, knocked on the door to 221A and invoked Mrs. Hudson's endless supply of backup practicalities.

"Ta," John said with his compliments to his kindly and generous landlady then returned to his and Sherlock's sitting room to continue his seasonal undertaking, however pathetic it seemed to anyone else.

After untangling the green wires once more for a good half a minute, John cascaded the white ones in some sort of wavy design on the mantelpiece once he noticed they would droop too low otherwise—pathetic attempt at compensation creativity but what would you expect from an ex-army doctor?—and then attached them there with the tacks. He stepped back to survey the outcome so far and decided it was better than he expected it to be, after all. Good start, definitely.

He retreated back to the table with a lighter step and took hold of some strange orange-colored affair that resembled Christmas lights but he had a sneaking suspicion they might have been overstocked Halloween decorations. Oh, well, he shrugged. Good enough. Maybe he could hide them in the curtains so they emitted a nice glow…oh, bugger, he was beginning to sound like an interior designer, a thought that made him shudder in revulsion before he continued to hook up the ambiguous holiday batch of glistening gems to the window frame.

"I thought I told you to stop whistling, it's still annoying," Sherlock snapped, making John start as the detective, now in his usual black blazer in lieu of the dressing gown, paraded elegantly into the room without warning, as usual.

"Sorry," John replied, "forgot in my excitement, I guess."

"Oh? And what could possibly be so exciting?"

"The Christmas decorations, of course!" Immediately, he regretted pointing them out to his flatmate who tended to flaunt a more merciless streak of criticism than most human beings. Nervous at what Sherlock would say, of how gruesomely the younger man intended to shoot down his efforts not to mention hopes, John pretended to ignore him as those startlingly observant eyes flickered from one cord of lights to the other.

To John's absolute astonishment, Sherlock nodded a few times in approval. "Not bad, John," he observed.

John's mouth fell agape. "R-really?" Like a newborn owl, he blinked stupidly up at his friend. It might have seemed like a small, unimportant thing to receive such a veiled compliment, but from Sherlock Holmes it was a downright miracle. And having the humble praise escape from one he respected so much and deemed his best friend, a brother, a warm sense of appreciation took spark in his chest.

Sherlock hummed in confirmation and, upon noting a long thin strand of garland that John had set out on the sofa earlier, he added with a wave of his hand, "You could hang that and some more lights across the top of the mirror. The reflection would give them more emphasis and give their sparkle capabilities a boost, most likely."

Again, John was teetering on the brink of shock but once a thread of indignation at being ordered about like a servant reached his consciousness and made him frown, he was able to adequately shake himself and return to the physical indication of his disgruntled Christmas cheer. "If you think it's so great an idea, then you can do it yourself," John responded tartly, marching over to the sofa and tossing the bundle of fake pine needles unceremoniously over to Sherlock where it came to rest on his shoulders like an odd replacement for a mink stole.

Strangely, Sherlock didn't protest, gripe, or even roll his eyes. Instead, he did the exact opposite of what John was expecting by wordlessly grasping tightly to the cheap garland and, stretching his long arms to the wall at his head, spread it with delicate fingers atop the old elongated mirror above the fireplace, clipping it in place with Mrs. Hudson's tiny wonders most deemed some type of pin that magically left no mark behind once removed. With uncharacteristic gentleness and sense of artistic beauty, Sherlock repeated the action with another string of white twinkling bulbs, this time allowing them to curve down from its hook above once, twice, across the surface of the mirror's glass, making the wall burn with its radiance.

John stared at him with hands on hips all the while during his flatmate's attempts at ornamentation and found himself begrudgingly impressed at the results. "Huh…you know, that actually does look great."

"Yes," Sherlock lilted curtly, his tone blatantly implying the "of course, you nitwit, what did you expect?" which was, thankfully, left unvoiced.

"Excellent. Wonderful! Well, with your help it'll not only go faster but will look all the more better and more festive. Here," John spoke quickly so as to avoid any gaps for refusal, throwing him another box of lights, these ones multi-colored like a Christmas rainbow.

Sherlock stood absently for a moment, studying the package in his hands with a confused expression on his face. "Decorating—not really my area. I'd rather not." His face portrayed that offensively artificial curving of his full lips which more clearly pronounced his condescension, as ever rubbing his colleague the wrong way. With a flourish, Sherlock tried fobbing the packet and therefore his unexpected burden off to the doctor who shook his head resolutely.

Unfolding a disgruntled look, Sherlock petulantly insisted, "But…I don't want to."

"Too bad. This is your flat just as much as it's mine so you need to do your part once in your lifetime. Consider it an experiment, if you like." He firmly pressed the cardboard back into Sherlock's thin chest, feeling excessively pleased with himself.

As though his inner fight deflated for some odd reason, Sherlock only upraised an eyebrow and gave the predicted rolling of his eyes directed purposefully toward the small soldier, then the detective took the package and wandered over to the kitchen where he yanked out the green ravel. Efficiently and with just as much aesthetic skill as with its predecessor, he promptly, though with a little more aggression than necessary, tacked it to the kitchen wall to the right of the table.

"If I must, I must, despite it being completely pointless. I am _bored_ enough," Sherlock mumbled under his breath though John heard every syllable.

With a muffled chuckle and an affectionate grin making a home on his face, the doctor finished off the effect in the sitting room by balancing a few red ornament balls on the edges of the book shelves, feeling distinctly pleased with himself. In companionable silence, they committed themselves to their project.

Once Sherlock was through with his task, both men without a word strode backwards toward the sofa and for a long while did nothing but gaze at the splendor that was their last-minute, bachelor-designed, limited-budget but full-hearted and well-meaning Christmas trimmings.

John was unspeakably proud of what he saw there, as well as how Sherlock permitted himself to be persuaded into it with little pain.

"You seem very creative for a detective," John whispered.

"Hardly," Sherlock shot back with a distasteful huff.

"Where did this come from?" Sherlock asked curiously, scooping up a ruffled Santa hat from the pile of discarded boxes and rubbish on John's chair.

John felt himself color with embarrassment without quite knowing why. "That's mine, I guess, found it with my Christmas jumper. Not sure where it came from…"

Sherlock's eyes glimmered with something between amusement and disgust.

"Christmas…jumper?" he smirked.

"Yes, well. It's all in good fun, you know."

Sherlock said nothing, only walked the hat over to the fireplace and plopped the hat on the crown of Billy the Skull' head, adjusting it a little so it sat more properly and wouldn't fall off by the slightest breath of wind.

"What do you think? The coup de grace, if you will, of this whole ridiculous venture?" A rare smile brightened Sherlock's sharp face and softened his words.

John laughed out loud, placing his hands on his knees to steady himself in his burst of mirth.

"But in all seriousness, something is missing, John."

"Oh?" Abruptly a thought occurred to him. "Don't you dare say 'mistletoe', people talk enough as it is!"

"What? Why would I think that? No, no, no. As you have expressed it to me more times than one could count, I may not be intimately familiar with ordinary customs, moronic and dull as they are I can't bring myself to care, but don't people usually display pine trees or something and are supposed to decorate _that_, not that we have room, of course…?"

John's entire body stilled like one turning to stone, his hands rolled up into hardened fists. Lips taut and frozen, he slowly swiveled his head on a stiff neck and focused on Sherlock with narrowed, fiery eyes that would have made anyone cower. For Sherlock however, he only tilted his head to the side without fear, instantly analyzing all that had occurred in that accursed tree lot.

Regardless of what he could deduce already, John snarled in a low voice, "Never…mention…Christmas trees…ever…again!"

Sherlock blinked, his eyes widening marginally. "I'm sorry it went so badly. Animal, was it?"

"Hmm," John murmured, a sardonic grimace slashed across his ordinarily placid face. He turned away and said nothing more and, gratefully, Sherlock made no further comment. The detective simply took John's vague answer in his stride, knowing he would be right one way or another. So just this time, Sherlock let it drop for the sake of his friend; or indirectly for his own, sometimes Sherlock couldn't quite tell the difference.

ↄ∞ↄ

The evening of their first ever Christmas Eve party arrived more quickly than John was anticipating. The Christmas festivities came and went but not without their fair share of troubles. Poor Molly unintentionally exposed her true and deep feelings toward Sherlock on the wake of a very prickly and venomous slander to her person when he took a gift from her bag that was meant for the subject of her fancy, but found it addressed to no other than himself. To John's great shock, Sherlock actually apologized. After Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom to unwrap the Woman's present to him—why is it that _Sherlock _who couldn't be bothered to carry out a relationship, got all the Christmas offerings from the women, John liked to know!—the festivities calmed down and continued with little pain after that. John might have even had a lot of fun if he hadn't already caught a glimpse of that terrible look in his friend's eyes and the brusque way he shut the doctor out.

Once the gathering broke up, John gently rapped on Sherlock's door and sheepishly traipsed inside. Sherlock glanced up at him from his sitting position on his bed, baffled at this inexplicable interruption and probably would have scolded his flatmate but didn't get the opportunity. John didn't say a word, just pitched a Santa-designed gift bag in the air which Sherlock automatically and deftly caught.

"What's this?"

"Sherlock, for a brilliant man, you can be incredibly thick. It's a Christmas present. From me to you." He remained standing, his hazel eyes skating back and forth between the curly-headed detective and the gift he purchased specifically for the same.

With strange unfamiliarity and hesitation, as though Sherlock had gotten few presents in his life, he carefully pulled out the scarlet tissue paper from its depths and produced a leathery bag, shaped like a small, flat cricket ball, which was followed closely by a set of petri dishes and a microscope lens.

"The fellows helping me said that resin is the best they make and the same goes for the science equipment," he explained defensively, preparing himself for the inevitable denunciation, or at the very least, stoicism.

On the contrary, Sherlock seemed to light up like…well, like a Christmas tree, despite a grim distraction still tarrying beneath the surface. "Quite a pleasant surprise, John. I like them very much. You know me better than I thought…"

"Well, er, thanks…" John muttered. He wasn't prepared for this kind of response though a pleasant sort of feeling swam through his veins like they had been infused with an intravenous form of hot chocolate all the same.

Before he knew what was happening, a small rectangular object was flying through the air toward his head. Thanks to his army-flourished instincts and reflexes, he somehow managed to avoid it smacking him across the mouth.

"What—you actually…bought me a Christmas present…?" He was so stunned, his legs felt like they would collapse beneath him.

"Obviously."

Moved beyond speech, John hastily tore child-like past the wrapping paper and into the box it hidden beneath. Inside was nestled a highly-polished and very expensive-looking wristwatch. "Is—is that a new Breitling? But Sherlock…this must have cost way more than you could possibly have…"

"You needed a watch. You broke yours last week, didn't you?"

"Well…yeah, but a _Breitling_?"

"It wasn't all that much, someone owed me a favor."

"Not Mycroft, I hope."

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock lashed out, his expression dangerous. "Even if he did warrant me a favor, he would never compensate. We Holmes brothers are much too proud for that, regardless."

"I can believe that. What I _can't _believe is this! Wow, Sherlock, seriously, this is…this watch is amazing. Thank you," John said quietly, his fingers swirling gently along the watch's cool glass edges and the quicksilver rim with its own manly-styled filigree, his heart suddenly overflowing.

Swallowing, John gaped up at the best friend he ever had, the coils of black hair above the vivid yet icy eyes that were so familiar in their dazzling intellect as well as, he was now understanding, his tender affection although he hid it well most of the time. John couldn't believe that only a year ago, he had never known a man named Sherlock Holmes or that the detective would become dearer to him than anyone else, even his family. Back then, John had been in tattered pieces after his tour to Afghanistan, after getting shot, feeling so completely lost and helpless, nothing to anyone or anything. And yet here he was, standing before a man that gave him a much-needed thrill of adventure, a purpose, a reason to live…even a bond of friendship that was of greater worth than all the money and gold in the world. A year could certainly change a lot in one's perspective, one's life. In truth, the thought of Sherlock remembering him, cherishing him enough to buy him a Christmas gift at all, meant more to him than the gift itself.

"This has been the best Christmas I've had for a long time. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

**Oh yes, I just committed a terrible farcical bit of humor by adding an angry squirrel. So sorry about that but I couldn't help myself, really! **

**Please review and send me suggestions for further chapters, if you like!**

**And lastly, Merry Christmas, fellow Sherlockians!**


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